


Escape

by AbigailHT, TooRational



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Badass Jesus, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Jesus (Walking Dead) deserved better, Jesus does the things he should have done on the show, M/M, Negan (Walking Dead) is an automatic warning, Not Canon Compliant, POV Jesus, Pre-Relationship, no claim for medical accuracy, paul rovia deserves better 2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 20:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17029134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailHT/pseuds/AbigailHT, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: By the time the song starts drilling into his head worse than the headache, he's come to the conclusion that he can't do much.There's no way to get out unless someone unlocks the door, and even if he could, he has no idea where he'd go once he's out anyway. Nor has he any idea who has him. Or why. Or where. Or where home is. Or—Basically, he doesn't knowanything, and even the things he does know are mostly instinct and completely unverifiable anyway.He's contemplating sitting back down again — he'll have to do it at some point, if only to preserve his strength, but thecold, and thedirt, and he'snaked, his skin crawls at the mere thought — when the song shuts off abruptly.Or: The Saviors' latest prisoner isn't quite what he seems.





	Escape

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Escape](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167859) by [FrozenPoison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenPoison/pseuds/FrozenPoison)



> Aby's Note: The memory loss is fictional and not necessarily medically accurate.
> 
> Zo's Note: And we don't care! Enjoy! ♥
> 
> Translation to Russian by the lovely [FrozenPoison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenPoison) available on ficbook.net: **[Escape](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7887530)**.

He snaps out of unconsciousness with a choked-off gasp, heart trying its best to climb out of his chest. The darkness is suffocating, climbs down into his throat, and he doesn't even know if his eyes are open or shut.

One hard blink, two, nothing, _nothing_ , it doesn't change anything. He can't see, and the silence seems all the more menacing for it, the only sound being his own shaky breathing echoing off... walls?

He lifts a hand off the cold surface beneath him and pats at his face clumsily.

There's no blindfold, not a thing covering his eyes, only a vicious headache stabbing at his temples and what feels like cuts on both his bottom lip and left eyebrow. A careful prod reveals a goose egg on the back of his head, too.

What _the fuck_ is going on?

He swallows down the beginnings of a panic attack, shoves it away and packs it up because he's not helpless, he's _not_. Being helpless is a fucking death sentence, and he refuses to lie down and give up. Everything in him bristles at the mere thought.

He moves, instinctive and mostly uncoordinated, and has to bite down on a groan because that turns out to be a _very_ bad idea. Dull pain wraps across his abdomen, all over his back, slides down his thighs, all of it tender and concentrated like he's been kicked repeatedly. It hurts like a fucker but he turns to the side nonetheless, eager to get off the cold floor, stopping only when he scrapes his hip and knee on uneven concrete.

His bare, _uncovered_ hip and knee.

He's naked.

A quick pat-down confirms it, and he breathes out shakily, dread pooling low in his stomach.

No.

No, don't think about it, just move, _move_.

Something flashes in his peripheral vision as he rises up on an elbow, and after a terrifying, endless second his eyes adjust enough to register a sliver of light.

It's a door.

Door means out, just as light means there's nothing wrong with his eyes, and the one thing that finally goes in his favor energizes him.

Nonetheless, standing up is a struggle. Dizziness hits, various muscles protest, more bruises make themselves known, but he grits his teeth and pushes through. He takes a cautious step forward, hands up to avoid running into anything, and almost jumps out of his _fucking_ skin when music starts blaring from somewhere, sound so loud it feels like the walls are shaking.

He stands there for a second, like a rabbit listening which way the wolf is coming from, unsure what to do.

Time stretches, nothing happens, and after a minute or so he takes another step forward and reaches the door.

It's locked, of course, the cold doorknob refusing to budge. Kneeling and peering out into the sliver of light doesn't help either, the only thing visible is a section of a dirty floor and some kind of grey wall.

Fucking great.

With nothing else to do, he takes to exploring his cell. He maps out the room by walking in even steps with his left hand on the wall. Four steps, turn, four steps, turn, five, turn, four, turn, one, and there's the door again. So, a four by five feet room, approximately. This is where he's being held.

A cautious foray into the middle of the room reveals nothing but a smelly plate that he narrowly misses stepping into. The fact that someone has attempted to feed him means that _someone_ doesn't want him dead, at least. And that's if the 'food' is fresh, which by the smell of it might not be.

The song ends while he's exploring and starts right back up again, and unease trails its fingers up his spine.

He knows what this is. Taking away his clothes, all the comforts, depriving some of his senses while slamming mercilessly into the others, preventing him from getting any sleep — these are legitimate torture techniques. And if they actually know what they're doing and aren't just playing at being the Big Bad Men, it's only going to get worse.

But who are _they_? And what did he ever do to them?

He's just a…

He's a…

He's...

He can't—

Oh, holy fucking—

_He can't remember his name._

Panic hits like a sledgehammer into his solar plexus, and this time it drags him under mercilessly.

He gasps for the air that doesn't come, not enough of it, _never_ enough, and half-falls, half-lowers himself to the floor. Backing up like a child until he's curled up into a ball in the corner, he digs his fingers into his biceps and tries not to pass out.

The song does two more full plays before he draws in a normal breath, and then comes the hard part: getting it under control.

Breathe in, deep, nice and slow.

Hold for four beats.

Breathe out, as slowly as possible.

And again: In… Hold… Out…

A few minutes later, limbs shaky and chest aching, he's breathing in a textbook-perfect manner. Cherry on the shitty cake of this experience: at least the panic took away all the useless emotions and left behind only a clear head and focus.

So now, Nameless Wonder, it's time to _think_.

~*~

By the time the song starts drilling into his head worse than the headache, he's come to the conclusion that he can't do much.

There's no way to get out unless someone unlocks the door, and even if he could, he has no idea where he'd go once he's out anyway. Nor has he any idea who has him. Or why. Or where. Or where home is. Or—

Basically, he doesn't know _anything_ , and even the things he does know are mostly instinct and completely unverifiable anyway.

He's contemplating sitting back down again — he'll have to do it at some point, if only to preserve his strength, but the _cold_ , and the _dirt_ , and he's _naked_ , his skin crawls at the mere thought — when the song shuts off abruptly.

He freezes, ears still ringing and heart pounding, and tries to listen.

Heavy footsteps approach, the characteristic jingle of the keys accompanying them, and then a scrape as a key slides into the lock.

The door opens, and he puts his arm up and turns his head a little to spare his eyes. Seeing what's going on feels vital on a gut level, like the next few moments will decide what happens not only immediately, but in the near and far future.

A mean chuckle echoes against the walls and the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

"Oh, you're awake, princess," a mocking voice comes, and he squints until he sees a man with an ugly grin on his face, completely average in every way.

A snarky reply is immediately on the tip of his tongue, but something tells him to keep his mouth shut. There's a time and a place for sarcasm, and this is most definitely not it.

No need to antagonize the gentleman who's holding the keys to the cell he's locked in, naked.

"Looking a little messed up, are we? Don't worry, we'll dress you up nice and pretty for your meeting with Negan. You'll probably like that, won't you, you freak?"

That doesn't sound like a question that needs a reply so he stays quiet. He _does_ keep an eye on the man and shifts on his feet until he feels... better. Safer, more balanced.

"Hey, answer me, you little asshole!"

Ugly Grin reaches out to shove him, and he watches in slow-motion as, in a move way too fluid not to be practiced, his hands grab Ugly's left hand and yank him forward, dragging the man straight into his own waiting right knee ( _when did he move the knee_?)—

—and then he aims for the vulnerable soft tissue right below Ugly's ribcage—

( _"The ribs are driven backward through the lungs and solar plexus, a cluster of nerve cells behind the human stomach that controls some organ functions," a man says as he demonstrates the move to a group of people, "This sort of kick can cause internal bleeding and even cardiac arrest, so be careful."_ )

—and kicks once, and again, and Ugly's pained moans are too loud, too much, _someone will hear_ —

He lets go of Ugly and backs up a step, leaving the man to drop to his knees, gasping.

Ugly will shout for help, he _knows_ it as sure as he knows that his head is throbbing, and he can't let that happen. He's not gonna end up locked in this damn cell again, because next time he might not be able to get the drop on the guards.

Next time, they might not even bother, they'll just kill him and be done with it. And he's not letting that happen.

So in a lightning-quick move, he grabs Ugly's head with both hands and slams his other knee into it.

Ugly collapses, unconscious, and silence reigns.

Well, write _that_ down as terrifying and incredibly violent. Informative, too — he clearly has some kind of training, probably mart—

 _Get the fuck outta there_ , someone hisses in his head, and the shock jolts him straight out of the mental babble and into action.

He pauses in the doorway and listens for a while, but it doesn't look like their brief scuffle attracted any attention. A cautious look outside his cell reveals he's at a dead end of a long, grey hallway, one populated with many more doors like the ones he came out of. The dirty, weak yellow light from the bare lightbulbs leave the place looking like precisely what it is, in fact: a prison.

Well, that's one dilemma settled, then. To escape, go into the _opposite_ direction of the dead-end.

He follows the hallway, bare feet barely making a sound as he walks, and everything looks the same — doors every five-or-six feet, some locked, some empty, all looking like they've been used as cells at one point or another — until he comes across a different-than-all-other-doors door at the very end.

After the usual routine he used on all the other doors (listening in first, then turning the doorknob very carefully, then — if it goes and it's not locked — opening the door just a fraction, so it's not immediately obvious what's going on if someone is in there), he finds a fairly normal room that's obviously lived in, but currently empty.

One complete with a bunch of clothes laying around, falling out of a closet stuffed to the brim.

He does a mental fist-pump, spirits staying lifted even when he discovers the clothes are all worn and vaguely smell of their owner.

Beggars can't be choosers, and the more layers you have, the safer you are.

One black t-shirt and brown cargo pants later (there's no way he's putting on someone else's underwear, that's just disgusting), he reluctantly shoves his feet into the least-smelling pair of socks and boots and grabs a blue flannel shirt.

( _—e man has a jacket on, flannel sleeves stitched on—_

 _—a woman with green eyes smiles at him, short brown hair covered with a cap—_ )

He shakes off the images. He doesn't know what they mean in any case, no use getting distracted. As he ties the laces around his calves several times, he pauses for a moment, unsure why he did it, but the thought flits away when he sees a full-size mirror in one corner.

_Oh._

It's only two steps to get to it, and then he's looking at himself. For the first time.

Light-colored eyes, long brown hair, a beard that looks pretty well kept. Average height, slim build. He has lightly defined muscles but nothing out of the ordinary. He definitely has training, though, so maybe the muscles are of the useful and not showy kind?

No sudden revelations or memories flash as he looks at himself. He doesn't see anything familiar at all.

 _Move your goddamn ass_ , the voice growls at him this time, and again he complies without a second thought. He shoves a beanie on his head, twists all his hair under it, and heads for the door.

He remembers Ugly Grin once he's back in the hallway, and he's pretty sure he didn't hit him hard enough to stay unconscious for too long, so he starts opening cabinets. He hits the jackpot with some rope and duct-tape on the third try, along with a sheathed knife from one of the drawers that he puts handle-out in a thigh pocket. Stuff like that often comes in handy.

Stereo with the infernal music back on, he backtracks to the cell and ties up Ugly nice and snug, then locks the door and pockets the keys.

Karma, as they say, is a… a not very nice lady.

Now to find a way out of here.

~*~

It takes him a couple of minutes and two floors of walking to run into the first person since Ugly Grin.

The cells are pretty far away from everything else in the building (very large, very square and specifically-laid-out building — office spaces, maybe a factory of some sort?), which makes sense if torture is a daily occurrence.

He wonders what sort of people live here. Are prisoners and beatings something that's become a routine by now? Are they numb to it or do they enjoy it? Can they sleep at night without the nightmares of what they've done plaguing their dreams?

Faint footsteps snap him out of the, frankly, very depressing line of thought, and he hurries in the other direction on silent feet. He manages to turn the corner before the person sees him, but comes to a dead end with a single door.

Locked, of-fucking-course, as are the two on the walls perpendicular to it.

The footsteps approach steadily, sounding more and more ominous by the second, and he looks around wildly, nothing, there's _absolutely nothing_ here, he'll be spotted in a few seconds—

The ceiling.

He looks up.

No one looks at the ceiling, right? And this one is pretty high, with the light source a little further away _and_ behind the corner, so it's also dark up there. The walls are close enough for him to reach both comfortably, and when he doesn't immediately fall on his face, he throws caution to the wind and climbs up using hands and feet in a matter of seconds.

He stays in the shadows, motionless, breathing shallow, and watches the Footsteps Man walk under him. All he sees from above is dirty blonde hair, dark clothes and a… a vest with wings on?

It looks wrong on the man for some reason. Like it doesn't belong, like the shoulders should be filling it out better. Like something is missing.

Vest Guy — formerly known as Footsteps Man — stays unaware as he unlocks one of the doors, disappears inside, and leaves said door wide open.

Great, fucking great. Now he can't drop down because he'll be spotted immediately. The position he's in isn't difficult in and of itself, but with his bruises and aches making themselves more and more known, and his muscles starting to tremble from the strain, he has at most a couple of minutes before his arms and/or legs give out.

He doesn't want to think about what would follow if that happened.

Eyes on the prize, Nameless, the prize being getting _the fuck_ out of here.

Ninety way-too-long seconds later, Vest Guy is back, and, after locking the door, gone.

He waits until the footsteps have faded completely before he pushes off the walls and drops, light as a feather, managing to not make a sound as he lands, too.

As soon as he's down, his body stages a mutiny.

 _Everything_ hurts, the muscles seem to hold a contest as to which one is pissed and injured more, and he hunches over a bit and tries to relax, keep his breathing shallow, but it doesn't help.

He bites down on a whine. Giving up is so tempting right now. He could just curl up on the floor right here — it's nice and cold, it would feel like an ice pack on all the bruises. No more movement, no more pain.

He can't.

Actually, he won't give these _fuckheads_ the satisfaction. They stripped him, threw him into a cell, fed him disgusting things, and tried to scare and humiliate him. There is no possible way he's letting them get away with any of it.

Oh, look, he learned something else about himself: he's a contrary, stubborn little shit.

The slowly but steadily developing migraine tells him there's no time for wallowing or self-pity.

He moves on.

~*~

The thing is, trying to navigate a strange place filled to the brim with people you're trying to avoid is playing a game of poker with the deck stacked against you.

His luck was bound to run out at some point.

It's pure bad timing — a man comes out from one of the locked rooms after he's already passed it and asks him to turn around, voice one of those that sound like a bullhorn and can be heard two miles away at a whisper.

It attracts attention immediately, of course, and he gets surrounded in seconds; brawny, mean looking men and women walking out of various rooms and from behind corners like cockroaches.

Three, five, eight.

Ten.

Ten opponents and him, all crammed into a space that's five feet wide at most, and ends with a window and a staircase to the right, the closest exits he sees.

_Shit._

He lifts his hands halfway up in an attempt to look harmless while he takes them all in and tries to find a way out of this mess. A man and a woman talk to him, ask questions and spit out threats, but he doesn't reply, can't spare the time nor the attention.

It won't do to be caught off guard.

His brain seems to be playing out scenarios, all on its own and unasked for, which is kind of uncomfortable and really fucking weird. It's less like predictive 3D special effects (which he'd expect) and more of a _detail and feeling_ type thing.

For instance, he knows the men closest to him will reach him first, that's a given. Talky and Red Hat, probably, and since they're both large they should also move slower than him, so he can evade them easily as long as he doesn't walk into someone else.

He also knows Talky favors his right arm and will probably use it to swing at him or draw the knife at his belt at some point, while Red Hat's weak spot is his left knee, which is obvious from the way he's keeping most of his weight off of it.

All of that he gets at a glance, and can list at least one similar thing about all those nearest to him, five in total.

But there's still five more, and whatever move he makes, however he incapacitates them, he'll get overwhelmed sooner or later. It's inevitable, all scenarios end that way. And he _will_ have to engage with them all, there's no other way out. If he lets any of them get up once they're down, he lost the fight already.

So... that means he can't let them get back up.

He has to take them all out, as quickly and efficiently as possible, in a way that _doesn't let them get back on their feet_.

A part of him flinches at the thought, tries frantically to find some other solution because this is impossible to accomplish without _killing someone_ , but there is none.

He's cornered, in all senses of the word.

In a flash, he sees them all already dead at his feet, bodies broken, eyes glassy and unseeing, limbs unnaturally twisted, and his stomach rolls with nausea.

No memories of his past exist to confirm or deny this, but he is _not_ a killer. That much he's sure of. This decision feels wrong on all possible levels, like his entire _being_ rejects the reality he found himself in. He doesn't want to do it, doesn't want to kill or seriously hurt these people, no matter what they did to him or who they turn out to be. Even if they're not good people. What gives _him_ the right to be judge, jury, and executioner?

But the situation is decided as soon as Talky charges at him. And after a split second of mourning (them? himself?), he pushes everything but the present moment out of his head and _moves_.

All ten of them would probably descend on him at once but they can't, only four managing to get close in the first wave. They're a blur of menacing movement, but he's ready for them, and uses the momentum of the first one that reaches him to swing both of them around and launch him headfirst into the two coming at him from the other direction.

Gotta have space to work.

Neck Tattoo manages to get her hands on his flannel from the back, and he twists and slips out of it, wraps the sleeves around her neck and knocks her out with a knee to the head.

It seems that's a favored move of his. Who knew.

Every second counts, so he leaves her where she dropped (more obstacles for the guys behind him, when they finally untangle themselves in the next three to five seconds) and jumps toward the remaining three on the non-entangled side.

Only two of them come at him because they're _fucking stupid_ , so he jabs the edge of his palm into Sweaty's throat and kicks Goatee in the side of the knee to bring him down, then slams his fist downward as hard as he can into Goatee's temple. When he wakes up, he should at the very least have a concussion.

Sweaty is still choking, so he ignores him for one more second while he aims a spinning back-kick at Beanie, pushing him away to slam Sweaty's head against the wall.

Three down, seven to go.

He barely manages to kick Beanie in the nuts and roundhouse him into the floor while he's hunched over and wailing (four down), when he feels hands on his arms, pulling him backwards.

Looks like the tangled side got untangled, probably Talky, judging by the roar of rage that's still bouncing off the walls.

He drops and twists, goes for Talky's eyes, snaps Red Hat's wrist and arm, uses every dirty trick in the book including stomping on one guy's groin mercilessly, and takes down two more guys and one woman.

The woman, Curly Hair, delivered a sucker punch to his stomach in the process, but he manages to shake it off. There are enough bruises on him already that every hit they land lowers his chances of survival considerably, but so far, so good.

And there's only three of them left.

Skinhead takes advantage of a split second of inattention and kicks him right in the already massive bruise on his kidneys, and his entire body seizes, all breath leaving his body in a rush as pain paralyzes him for a crucial second.

He scrambles backwards as soon as he's able, and his only saving grace is that his opponents are of the gloating-and-cruelty kind. They revel in his pain, even more so because they think they have him at their mercy, and something ugly inside him bares its teeth and howls for blood.

 _Yeah, you're gonna regret that_ , he thinks viciously, and within ten seconds kicks Eyebrows' ribs hard enough to _feel_ the bones give in and snap, if not puncturing a lung then not far from it, either. Eyebrows falls, wheezing for air, more than likely dead already and just waiting for his body to catch up.

The last two are a bit more difficult, as he apparently already put down all the stupid ones, and he doesn't move fast enough after taking down Skinhead because the last man standing manages to wrap a chain around his neck ( _where the_ ** _fucking fuck_** _did he find a chain?!_ ) and pull him up until his legs are off the ground.

Terror grips every single cell in his body as he claws at his throat with both hands because he's helpless, he can't get any leverage to get out of it. Elbowing and kicking with his heels doesn't work because the man is a fucking giant, _fuck fuck fuck_.

Darkness starts to creep along the edges of his vision and he thrashes like a fish caught on a hook, panicking, thoughts in a jumble, if only he had--

The knife _, the knife!_

He takes his right hand off the chain and fumbles for his pocket, praying the sheath will fall off the knife when he pulls it out.

It _does_ , and he stabs backwards blindly, feeling the blade move through flesh until it scrapes against bone.

He hit the thigh, then.

A hoarse scream is followed by a sudden loosening of the chain, and he's back on his feet, breathing sweet, sweet air for several long seconds.

He realizes he still has a tight grip on the knife, must've yanked it out when he fell, and spins around and lifts it just in time for the man to slam into him and throw them both to the ground, impaling himself on the knife in the process.

That… that's it.

That was all of them.

For several long moments he just lies there — throat on fire, body aching from new and old bruises, head pounding, limbs trembling from exhaustion — eyes welling up and spilling over.

This is… this was fucking _horrible_.

 _Why_?

Why is this happening, what _the fuck_ could he have done to these people for them to come after him with such hatred? With fists, and knives, and _chains_ to choke the life out of him.

Is he a bad person? Maybe he did something reprehensible, unforgivable? Maybe he hurt them first?

And if he isn't the bad guy here, why didn't anyone come and get him?

Is he all alone in the world? Does no one care if he lives or dies, if he's locked in a cell and fed scraps, naked and afraid?

The thought hits a sore spot deep inside him, pushes a sob through his clenched teeth before he can stifle it. It's almost as bad as all the physical aches and pains he has.

For the second time since he woke up in this hell, footsteps echo from somewhere nearby, along with shouts from a vague downstairs direction. They jolt him out of his pity party, and he swipes at his eyes and pulls himself together, then pushes the corpse away and stands up.

A quick, orienting glance around him dissects his options within moments:

He can't go through the window even if he wanted to — its glass is so opaque, he has no idea what's on the other side, and it's also welded together from small iron rectangles. Scratch that.

Back where he came from is too far into a hallway with locked doors on both sides — that's plain stupid _and_ downright begging to be caught and cornered again.

The only direction left is to go up, which is the stupidest move ever, but...

He takes his knife, wipes the blade on the dead man's shirt quickly, and _runs_.

~*~

Five floors up the staircase ends, and he stumbles into another hallway completely the same as all other hallways he's been in and passed by.

 _Fuck,_ this place is a _fucking nightmare_.

Hell itself probably has this exact same layout, and you spend eternity wandering around, opening doors and getting nowhere.

He starts running nonetheless, hoping to get to the staircase on the other end and maybe find an emergency exit or something (there are rules about such things, about fire hazards and all, right?) but a figure at the far of the hallway end nips that thought in the bud.

He stops and backs up, and, with no alternatives left, starts trying to open the doors around him.

Locked, locked, the man is approaching at a run and will arrive in five seconds max, locked, two more just turned the corner at the other side of the hallway, locked, loc-- no, _open_.

He practically falls into the room and slams the door behind him, turning the key that's, miraculously, still in the keyhole.

The chair that's conveniently placed against the wall to his right is next, as he slides it under the doorknob for good measure. The door vibrates with the force of pounding and yelling two seconds later but it holds. For now.

"Well well well," an amused voice comes from behind him, and he turns and sees a thin man in a black leather jacket sitting at a table, papers spread everywhere and a baseball bat wrapped in barb wire next to them.

The smirk he's wearing doesn't look particularly friendly.

"Looks like _someone's_ a slippery little bastard, if you'll pardon my French. Not exactly what I'd expect from your kind, I heard you're all scared little field mice. But don't worry! I was planning on coming by to talk to you anyway one of these days, so it's mighty kind of you to spare me the trip."

There's nothing to do but stare at the rockstar-wannabe while he talks.

Could he be the leader of this place?

"You don't talk much, do you?" Leather Jacket says with a crooked grin after silence stretches out for a few seconds, and stands up. It's a slow, unhurried, and most of all, menacing movement. "Are you sure that's how you want it? I mean, it's cool, I dig that, but it's going to be a little uncomfortable for you, if you get my drift."

Again a question that doesn't seem like it needs a reply. He's noticing a trend with how people behave in this place.

He keeps his mouth shut and watches as the other man circles the table theatrically.

"Well, if you're not gonna talk we're gonna have to cut this short, I think I hear someone at the door. Oh, and don't hold what I'm about to do against me. You gotta think about if from my point of view — what kind of a leader would I be, what kind of a _message_ would I send, if I let you just run around after you've taken one of my favorite toys away from me? And I just finished potty-training him, too, awh. Now, that just _won't. do_."

And between the last two words of his bullshit speech, Leather Jacket snatches the bat from the table with snake-like speed and swings it straight at his head.

 _What the fuck is wrong with this guy?_ he wonders as he ducks and backs up, quickly snatching the key from the lock before side-stepping two more swings.

"Hold still, you little asshole," Leather Jacket says, and the blatant glee on the man's face snaps the very last nerve he has, rage rising and setting fire to the blood in his veins.

He is so utterly, _completely done_ with this place. With its stupid hallways, and creepy cells, and all the _fucked-up_ people that live here, and most of all, he's done with this _king of assholes_.

An icy calm settles over him, and he ducks one last time before stepping into Leather Jacket's personal space, grabbing the bat and throwing it to the side. He kicks him straight into the solar plexus with all the frustration and pain he's feeling right now, and when Leather Jacket doubles over with a pained yell, he knocks him unconscious with a roundhouse kick that sends him headfirst into the wall.

The dull thump and the ensuing silence sounds so good, it's worth all the pain the exercise brought with it.

Take that, you fucking prick.

Unfortunately, the satisfaction lasts the mere seconds it takes for him to realize he's now stuck in a room with an unconscious, sadistic leader of a cult of some sort, with no way out but through a mob of his followers.

He does a quick survey of the place but nothing stands out. It's a room with no vents, no other doors, nothing but the walls, furniture, and a bunch of useless-looking things inside it. And it's just a matter of time before men that want to cut him into tiny pieces break in.

 _So use your head and figure a way out, then_ , comes from the inside of his head.

Oh, lovely, the utterly unhelpful voice is back.

He growls to himself under his breath, but still does another quick spin around the room. Not that he finds out anything useful because he already did that, didn't he, _useless voice person_? He knows what he's doing, he wouldn't miss something—

Wait, the windows.

 _How_ could he miss _the windows_?

He opens one of them and looks out into the moonlit night, at a fifty foot drop and a tiny ledge right below it.

And the fire escape to his far right.

The thought that pops up in his head makes him hesitate.

Could he...?

He managed spidermanning up the wall not so long ago, it can't be that impossible, right? Plus, there's literally nothing to lose here, it sounds like an axe has made an appearance at the door. The chances to slip and fall are really kind of small, when you think about it. Not nearly as scary as an axe and an angry mob.

Fuck it, better give it a try than go back to the cell.

The window is one of those that can actually be opened, luckily, and he slides out feet first, holding on to the windowsill tightly. His boots snag onto the ledge, and it feels impossibly, terrifyingly small. Completely not what it looked like a moment ago. Still, he slowly puts his entire weight on his toes, and tries to decide if he's balanced enough to continue.

Not really, no, but it doesn't matter.

He finds tiny chips in the façade to hook his fingers into after he's passed the window, and slides his feet carefully, left then right, left then right. He's focusing on nothing but his next step, his next handhold, and after an indefinite, nerve-wracking time period, he's gratefully climbing over the guardrail of the platform and onto the actual fire escape.

Knees wobbling, he starts climbing down the stairs as fast as he can, figuring out by accident (if tripping and almost breaking his neck can be called an accident) that he can jump and/or swing around the central pole occasionally for a quicker descent.

He's on the smaller building inside a minute, this one only three or four floors high but still too tall for him to just jump and hope for the best. A look downwards reveals multiple pipes going all the way to the ground.

There's no room for thinking after everything that happened, after realizing just how much his body can take — he sits and finds foot- and handholds in the pipe, and then, step by step, moving his hand and feet in a regular pattern, starts to descend. Slow at first, then more rapidly, until he drops the last five feet, landing with knees bent to absorb the impact.

This part went almost without a hitch, his luck is looking up.

He turns around, feeling pretty good about his chances — bruises, scrapes, nausea, stomach ache, and migraine aside — and freezes.

Holy fu—

There are... _things_ , pinned on the outside of the fence.

Dead things, judging by missing limbs, severity of injuries, and the degree of decay, but somehow they're still moving and moaning. It's like a scene from one of the horror movies he loved as a kid, gory and disturbing.

The much worse part is the fact that it... doesn't seem as shocking as it should be? It's as if his brain has assessed the level of threat and put it at 'negligible', and moved on already.

For the millionth time since he woke up, he wonders what the fuck is going on. He's getting sick of not having a clue what he landed into, and it's only getting more and more surreal by the minute.

He tugs off the hat — his scalp had started to itch something fierce beneath it — and takes a look around.

He has to make a plan for After Escaping This Shithole, because he's almost there, he can taste it. A little luck in the form of not running into any other monsters or cultists and he's set.

The outer fence is literally fifty feet away, he just has to jump over it _somehow_.

Maybe use that dumpster over there, and that iron rod, and try to—

He's running before he's fully aware he made the decision at all, and his body effortlessly executes what he imagined it would, carrying him over the top of the fence with inches to spare.

He lands on the outside of the fence, stumbling a little.

The whole thing was surreal for a moment there, so he looks back.

Yep, that's the ugly building.

He's really out, he escaped.

He _actually escaped_ , holy crap, that's incredible.

The giddiness spreads and he puffs out a silent laugh. It doesn't even matter that he has no idea what to do now, he _escaped from the hellhole_!

The celebration lasts five more seconds, and then he gets serious.

The plan is as follows: since staying put is out of the question, he'll move forward. The forest is a good place to get lost in, pun not intended, so he'll start a light jog towards it. Maybe the people chasing him will give up once they see how dark and dangerous it is? Fingers crossed.

He's just entering the first row of trees when movement draws his attention.

There's a man coming toward him, all wide shoulders, dark hair, and scraggly beard. Also a pointy weapon of some sort on his back, which is a bit worrisome.

He's about to duck down and hide but the man's head snaps toward him, and he feels the gaze land on him with an almost physical weight. He's scanned head to toe in seconds, and you'd think he'd feel uncomfortable about it.

You'd think.

"Jesus," Scruffy breathes out and shakes his head. "Shoulda figured out you'd escape. C'mon, my bike's nearby."

Scruffy, with his looks and weapons, coming out of the dark woods like that, doesn't really look like someone you'd trust.

He's staying put.

The man turns around and starts walking back into the woods, but stops when he notices he's alone.

"C'mon, what's the holdup?"

What to do, what to do.

He can't trust this guy, but can't really afford not to, either. The level of familiarity he'd shown is a good sign, but it could also be completely fake.

Frustrated, he realizes he's thinking in circles, but he can't make his legs move in either direction. So he just shifts on his feet to let out a bit of the nervous energy and rubs at his wrist.

"Jesus?"

Okay, that was definitely meant as a name this time, not as an emphasis or a general catchphrase.

 _My name is_ Jesus _?_

That's… that feels close but not quite right? The debate to outright ask or not, and so reveal his memory loss and precarious position to a complete stranger and possible threat, ends when he realizes there's no other choice.

"Is that my name?" he— _Jesus_ —asks carefully, the words sticking to the back of his throat.

It's the first time he spoke since he woke up, he realizes, and it hurts.

Scruffy looks at him, obviously startled and half in disbelief, then swears to himself.

"Look—" he starts, and an alarm of some sorts starts blaring behind them, with what seems like every single light in the vicinity of the ugly building turning on.

" _Shit_ ," Scruffy says, and takes a few urgent steps back towards him.

It's enough to startle him, this contained energy in the way the man moves, and he takes a wary step back.

Scruffy stops in his tracks.

Good instincts.

"Okay, listen up 'cause we ain't got no time. I'm Daryl, your name's Paul, but you go by Jesus. I can take you home, but we gotta go _now_ , before those assholes come out and kill us both."

Paul.

That fits a little better. Feels closer than 'Jesus' anyway.

Wait, the voice. It's the same voice that was hissing and swearing at him in his own head for hours now.

_Oh._

Paul swallows, hesitates, and Scruffy—Daryl—tries again.

"I know this ain't easy, but I swear I just wanna help. Will you trust me?"

Daryl extends his hand, palm up, and there's something about that gesture, something about this man.

He's looking straight into Paul's eyes and waiting patiently, steady as a rock, and it's…

It's nice. To be asked, and treated with patience and respect. To be important to someone even for a moment. It's nice to know someone cares.

It's the last thought that ultimately tips the scale in Daryl's favor.

"Okay," Paul says, and steps forward.


End file.
